


If memory serves

by bastardbones



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Altered Mental States, Angst, Canon Compliant, Dissociation, Identity Issues, M/M, Mental Instability, Operation Kuron (Voltron), POV Second Person, Past Relationship(s), Past Torture, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24747577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastardbones/pseuds/bastardbones
Summary: "By the roots of my hair some god got hold of me."
Relationships: Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	If memory serves

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the Ad Astra Per Aspera Sheith zine last year and forgot to post it here.

There is no purpose for it, other than easing that burdensome thought in your mind. Fistfulls of hair — your hair — stuffed into a bag like a dirty secret. Perhaps you wouldn't have felt so boldly to keep it if someone were around to raise questions. Keith, no stranger to a blade, had offered to cut it for you, the tendriled mass atop your head, thriving with no permission. You declined. Hair that length was not characteristic of you, and as you caught an unfortunate glance of yourself, after days in near comatose, you froze, you examined, and then you shaved. 

It is difficult to say goodbye to pieces of yourself. It is difficult in the way that your right arm isn't human. The rotary saw was an afterthought to the ringing in your ear, only championed by a grown man — you — howling through the ceiling. You couldn't decide which was crueler; a forced, unnecessary amputation, or being equipped with the shiny new tech of the monsters that mangled you. You recall Haggar and her glowing eyes, how they had pierced through you entirely. Her favoritism was obvious, you were a specimen destined to endure great pain in the name of science, and you writhed appropriately, like a frog strapped to a block. The experiments were ceaseless, your insides were poked, prodded, and your tolerance swayed with momentary acceptance and long lasting resentment. Now, you have no choice but to keep it, for simple tasks, for insane missions. You need this arm to sabotage and recode the battleships of trigger happy enemies. You need it to cut your hair.

“It looks good,” Keith had said during some peaceful moment. “You look good.”

You feel contrary to that statement. You are here, regardless. You are alive.

Your team assured you there was no rush, no chaos that permitted your immediate recovery. All the time you needed, you could take. In the quiet of your bedroom, isolated from the rest, it’s not hard to imagine Voltron without you. The black lion has never been so silent. Before your disappearance, her aura would encapsulate you, a constant vibration in the air, humming, almost like a purr, gently reminding you of her presence. Now, the air is stale. 

Time has moved without you in it. Putting on your armor is like cramming a puzzle piece where it might fit, but doesn't. It never felt like a costume before. This isn't personal, you must remind yourself. _This isn't personal._

You pretend not to notice, but whenever you look away, there Keith is, flashing you these heavy eyes. You see the exhaustion, the relief, and a suspicious hint of longing all in your peripheral view. When you turn, it vanishes like a mirage, spotting refuge where there is none. Maybe he thinks object permanence doesn’t apply to you, that you’ll evaporate in the blink of an eye. 

At the Garrison, you were the one keeping watch over him, always rehearsing a quiet reprimand. Your worries weren't excessive, but you nearly had an aneurysm when you received word of him punching a kid. That energy has been channeled more effectively now, and despite some toe stepping, he's an excellent protégé. Keith looks good in black. You always knew he would.

Rarely the trouble maker, but always the finder of it. The world was stacked against him, he was dealt a bad hand... however you diced it, the kid struggled. You emphasized with that, where most just dismissed or pitied it. You hadn’t put much thought into protecting him, you had done it so naturally, so instinctively, as though he were there from the start. Kindred spirits, destined for connection. You can envision it, though, Keith without you. He hasn’t _needed_ you for awhile, but relies on the thought. In that sense, you are his greatest weakness, the crutch in his performance, the bags under his eyes. 

Zarkon is no longer the main threat to the universe, the resistance has quickly changed its song to the tune of _Lotor_. Your team has become acquainted with this new enemy during your absence, he's built himself a reputation. Your first experience involves a stolen Teladav lense and some split second decision making by Keith, supervised, but not endorsed. You suppose this is around the time the headaches begin. 

“Hey,” Keith greets on an exhale, “you doing alright?”

You're standing near the entrance of your bedroom, prepared to retire for the day, when you hear the noise, a continuous ringing. The frequency is foreign to your ears, like something that might disturb an animal, or any creature keen on sound, but go unnoticed by a human. It elicits no response from Keith, he displays no such discomfort, no twitch of the eye, despite his Galra sensibilities. You suspect that the noise originates within you. Your vision flickers as the pitch rises. 

“Yeah,” you garble, nearly forgetting his question. You clear your throat and try again, “Yeah.”

“You look out of it,” he says, concern beginning to seep through. He's a distance away, but leans forward to inspect your face before approaching. 

You can hear your muscles contracting, the blood pumping through them, it is almost more unnerving than the ringing itself. Your pulse is in your ear, throbbing like the heart of a startled hummingbird, threatening to burst. Your other senses are weak in comparison, or completely useless. The fingernails digging into the meat of your hand, imprinting dark red moons, you can't feel it. You just bit the corner of your tongue and won't taste the iron until later. You are immobilized. 

_“You don't hear that?”_ you almost scream at him.

“Shiro,” he tries, knocking you back into existence. He's always doing that. 

“I’m fine,” you grunt. Before he can follow, you raise your hand in objection, keeping your head down as you scout for the nearest bathroom. 

Keeled over, face nearly touching the floor, forcing breath from your nose as not to vomit. It reminds you of the first time you got completely shit-faced. Guided from mattress to toilet, unable to walk unaccompanied, much less wipe the crust from your eyes, until your stomach was pleased with its purge. Calmed by a kind pair of hands, saying _I love you_ with each stroke, running down the sweaty nape of your neck, massaging the tension away. A small bliss, the cold palms on your skin, soothing the wet fire just beneath. Adam loved you like nobody’s business, through thick and tired, until he simply couldn't. Perhaps if you loved him as fiercely, you could have withered in his arms, the way a tree with illness does, slowly, crumbling beneath the surface. You spared him the misery of watching you die, too afraid to witness it yourself. You are here on borrowed time. 

Keith is gone sometime after that.

You don't blame him for it, he's always been torn between two worlds. You once struggled to find your own identity, same age as him, although his path is particularly difficult. So many challenges and so little choices. You hope the Blade of Marmora can give him the sense of community he's lacked, a chance for discovery and connection. The group has a specific mentality though, the success of a mission prioritized over the lives of their members, an ideology that Keith has also expressed. To your horror, he nearly sacrifices himself in a ditch effort to save the day. You swallow it down, the urge to reprimand him, or to put it less delicately, scream. 

Even with a wall separating him, Lotor has a completely punchable face. Though his surrender was peaceful, you felt the tension among your teammates, itching for the exclusive pleasure to tackle him teeth first. It’s that smile, that know-it-all grin that makes him so aggravating. You ask Allura to accompany you on each visit, mostly for her diplomacy, and partially to keep your ass in check. It’s too easy to lose your temper, you’re riding the line, skidding between civility and a bloody fist. 

“You look tired,” Lotor comments from behind his prison. Maybe you imagine the snark in his voice, the amusement. Just looking at his face must set off something inside you, because the ringing returns.

“Excuse me,” you say between clenched teeth. Allura calls after you, bewildered by your sudden change of character.

You spill out into the hallway, clinging to the wall as you move. The floor feels like a balance beam, a sense of panic overcoming you with each step. The movement of your body refuses to correlate with your mind, as though your brain is a foreign object, a transplant, that is now violently rejecting. You can feel yourself on that operating table all over again, the harsh light in your face, restrained by the joints. You can remember, just barely, the sensation of touch in your flesh and blood arm, the faint scar on the knuckle of your index finger, the thin hair on your forearm. You recall the first time Keith reached out to you, grabbed your hand, held it as you hugged goodbye for Kerberos. Your trauma may fabricate events, but not this, every moment before that doomed mission is entirely yours, all yours, if the sky is blue, if memory serves.

“Hey, are you okay?” Lance shrieks from somewhere behind you, clearly alarmed.

Your right arm pulsates in time with your head, as if they are connected, like a wire with an electrical heartbeat. If you tore it off, would the relief be instantaneous? Could you pry it away with your bare hand, adrenaline pumping, face red with strain? Would you bleed out, go into shock, die before your friends could ever hope to drag your limp body to a healing pod? 

You say, “Don't tell Keith.” Not _don't tell anyone._ Just _don't tell Keith_. You cannot be his distraction, you cannot sway his priorities.

“What?” Lance stammers. He’s reaching for you, arms outstretched in case of your sudden collapse, as if his bony arms could lift your dead weight, prosthetic included.

“Promise!” you bark. Lance flinches away, as though you might bite him, too. You are giving an order, but your authority in this situation is ill placed. You imagine this scenario without a rescuer, the same way you have imagined several others, no red lion coming to save you, no black lion in your hour of need. You have escaped death in this body, but not others, and there are others, frozen in the snow, trapped in alternate realms. You have died without ever knowing it. 

He says, “I promise.”

You say thanks.

You say sorry. 

The trip to your bedroom is a blur. You retrieve the old bag of unruly hair, as dark as a black hole, so easy to get lost in. You stare. And you stare. And you stare. And you stare. And you stare. And you stare. Until you notice a white strand, unaware of its deviancy, and wonder how long something can exist before realizing it may have never belonged.


End file.
